


Heir to the Empire

by terrys_chocklit_orange



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Breeding, F/M, Light Medical Kink, Pregnancy, Sex/Pregnancy for Gain, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 08:17:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8616502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terrys_chocklit_orange/pseuds/terrys_chocklit_orange
Summary: Giving birth to General Hux's heir would secure your future within the First Order...you just have to get there, first.





	

It happens at a routine physical.

Your strength and reflexes are tested, your sight and hearing examined. You're weighed and measured as usual. Nothing is out of the ordinary. The medical droids make no particular comment, but when it's time for your regular contraceptive shot, that sharp little pinch doesn't come. You turn to the droid, wondering if it needs repair—that is, after all, your job, and you're good at it—but before you can make any kind of diagnostic, the privacy curtain twitches open and a human medic appears. 

“You've been chosen,” she says, her voice flat. She doesn't need to explain more than that, but she goes on anyway. “You have been added to the pool of possible candidates to bear the offspring of a high-ranking male officer.” A little giddy, you wonder why she specified “male" officer. Surely, if you're intelligent enough to be selected as a reproductive mate, you're intelligent enough to know how reproduction works? “Participation in the programme is optional. If you do not wish to be involved...”

“I do.” You cut her off. It might be “optional”, but declining is the surest way to a dead-end career. Everyone knows that. Acceptance, on the other hand, and more importantly success, can take you far in the First Order, very far. Further than you ever truly thought you'd go. You smile, as the realisation settles in. “Yes, I accept. Definitely.” 

“Very well.” The medic doesn't seem surprised by your response. She presses a button on the pad in her hands. “If you are selected to pass to the next stage, you will be contacted within the next six to eight cycles. Do not engage in intercourse during that time, on pain of court martial. You're free to go.” 

Helpfully, the droid passes you your uniform. As you dress, your stomach turns over, excitement changing slowly to nerves. Are you really up to this? 

“Someone must think you are,” your roommate, Helena, says, as the two of you sit in your quarters. The room is small, just big enough for your two beds and a little table. Helena's side of the room is messy and cluttered, full of holos of her family and of her boyfriend, a Stormtrooper in F-division. Your side is neat, but bare. “They chose you.” She doesn't sound jealous, and you're grateful for that. You've been friends almost since your first day on the Finalizer. You're both droid technicians, neither of you entry-level but neither high-ranking.

“You're right,” you admit. 

“Just remember me when you're at the top,” Helena jokes. She hugs you and slides into bed. Almost immediately, she's snoring, but it's a long time before you're able to sleep. 

The call comes just after the beginning of the sixth cycle. You can't say you'd forgotten about it, but six cycles is a long time, and you have a lot on your mind. There are many droids aboard the ship, and all of them are vital to its operation. You're kept busy, making sure they're all in optimal condition at all times. When Kylo Ren is aboard, you're kept even busier, repairing the results of his wrath while cursing him silently. Word below decks is that Ren can read minds. You hope he never reads yours, but since you've only ever seen him once, from afar, that doesn't seem like an immediate concern. 

As you and Helena prepare to go on-shift one day, a comm comes through for you. “Report to medical bay,” it tells you. That's all. Your throat feels suddenly dry, your palms sweaty. Helena reaches over and squeezes your hand. “Good luck,” she tells you. You nod, not trusting yourself to respond any other way. 

In the medical bay, you're given a thin gown and ushered into an examination cubicle. There's one flat pillow at the head of the exam table, which is unusual, and two metal stirrups at the end. Your heart hammers, and you try to breathe deeply, in and out. Just another medical exam, you think. You've had enough of those. Like their droids, the First Order insists on all of their personnel being in top mental and physical condition at all times.

You hesitate, unsure whether you should sit or lie on the bed. In the end, you decide to sit. Your legs dangle over the edge, and you swing them childishly as you wait. And wait. And wait. Your stomach rumbles, aware that it missed it's morning meal. You sigh, and wait some more. Just as you're about to press the call button, to ask if a droid could be dispatched to fetch you a nutrient bar or something, the curtain slides open, revealing the medic and General Hux himself. 

You recognise him at once, of course, although you've only seen him on recruitment posters, holos, and as a small figure on a distant stage. He's wearing his full uniform, including his greatcoat and his hat, and he fixes you with a scrutinising stare. 

“She is an excellent candidate, sir,” the medic informs him. “Extremely strong in all physical and mental tests. And at peak fertility.” 

“Good. I don't want to waste my time.” Hux turns, unfastening his coat. The medic nods at you. When you don't move, she nods again, more insistently, her eyes sliding over the exam bed and the stirrups. Finally taking her meaning, you lie on your back, your heart beating even more wildly than before. “Leave us,” the general commands, and you hear the curtain open and shut again. 

For some reason, you'd assumed the insemination would be artificial. Perhaps that smacks too much of cloning. It doesn't matter, of course. No matter how it's done, this is your opportunity to make something of yourself, your moment to really show the First Order what you can do. Your chance to offer them that which they want more than anything else: more high-quality First Order citizens, to carry on the legacy into perpetuity. 

“I trust someone has made you aware of how this works?” General Hux's voice is clipped, his accent purely old Empire. This is really an honour of the highest degree. 

“Yes, sir,” you reply, trying to sound confident and eager. You are eager. It's the confidence that's wavering, a little. 

There will be up to three separate attempts. If a candidate does not conceive—or impregnate, as there are male candidates paired with female officers as well—by that time, they are removed from the programme. If you do get pregnant, you will be taken from the ship after the third month and placed on a maternity ship for the duration of the pregnancy. You don't know exactly what those ships are like, but from what you've heard, they're paradise. Private rooms, droids to wait on you hand and foot, bathtubs with real water, food beyond compare. A dream. 

“I will be fully responsible for any offspring that may result from our union,” General Hux says. From where you lie, you can't see him, but his strong voice reverberates in the tiny cubicle. “You will have no rights in that regard. Although, provided you do not disgrace the Order in any way, you will be permitted to communicate with the child, and perhaps visit, if your schedules permit it.” 

“Yes, sir.” That's fine with you. Nobody does this because they want a baby. They do this for the Order and, if they're honest, for the personal benefits it will bring. 

“Good.” The General steps forward, into your line of vision. He has removed his coat and hat, but otherwise remains clothed. He frowns, and an icy chill runs up your spine. Have you failed already? “You're nervous,” he says. It's a statement of fact, not a question. 

“Yes,” you admit. 

“I don't wish that.” He blinks. “The chances of conception will lower if you are anxious. Perhaps we should discuss...” He looks around the cubicle, as if hunting for inspiration. “Your job?” He suggests. 

“I'm a droid technician,” you tell him. 

“Is that interesting?” 

“Yes. I mean, I think so.” 

“Hm.” As conversations go, it's not stellar, but you do feel yourself relaxing, a little. This is General Hux, but he's also a person, here to do their duty the same as you are. 

“I've been doing it for about six years,” you add. 

He asks a couple of questions, about specific droids and specific repair methods. He knows more than you would expect, for a general who surely has much bigger things to think about. It almost feels like talking to...well, not like talking to Helena or another one of your team, but at least talking to a person. When he says, “Shall we get on, then?” You feel much more comfortable in answering, “Yes.” 

He doesn't disrobe entirely. You wouldn't expect it from a man of his rank. But you hear fastenings loosen and fabric slide against fabric as he moves to the end of the exam table. “In my experience,” he says, “and this is supported by literature on the matter, chances of conception are increased if the woman experiences an orgasm before or during the act.” 

“Oh...” Before you can say anything else, gentle fingers touch you, sliding softly between the lips of your vulva. 

Normally, when you're having sex, you think of it as your _cunt_ , and sometimes talk about it that way, but this seems more formal, more businesslike. Still, you gasp when the General presses one light finger against your clitoris, sending a jolt of pleasure through your body. “You can make noise, if you like,” General Hux informs you. “I've had the medical bay cleared of all human personnel. And the droids won't judge.” 

It's a joke. Not particularly funny, but you appreciate the intent behind it. You laugh, and the finger on your clit presses harder, while two others extend deeper within your body. 

It feels good, you can't deny that. Even before you were ordered not to have sex, your duties make it difficult to find time for recreation, and it's been a while since you had anything other than your hand or your trusty vibrator to amuse you. General Hux fucks you slowly on his long fingers, wringing a moan and then a groan from you as he brushes against your most sensitive areas. You feel yourself growing wetter by the moment, a slickness which spreads onto the exam table beneath you when the General withdraws and repositions his hand. Now his thumb his circling your clit. He crooks two fingers inside you, brushing against a centre of pleasure that makes you nearly scream in ecstasy. With his other hand, he caresses your thigh, tracing delicate patterns on the skin there. "That's it," the General encourages, his voice melodious in your ears. " That's it." His hand moves faster, almost roughly. Your toes curl. "Come on," he says, and before you know it, you're obeying, your hips lifting off the bed as pleasure courses through you. 

He lets you ride through it, withdrawing his hand only when your body instinctively twists away. “Are you ready?” He asks. You nod, panting too hard to speak, and General Hux climbs onto the table. 

His penis is long and red, very hard already and leaking at the tip. You get only a brief glimpse of it before he slides it inside you. 

He knows what he's doing, and vaguely, you wonder how many times he's done this before, how many heirs he's sired, or attempted to, and how many women—judged unfit for procreation but good enough for recreation—he's fucked on his own time. Then, his body is flush against yours, his penis filling you in a way that almost makes you come again, just like that. You stop wondering. 

You stop thinking at all. You wrap your legs around the General's back, which he seems to appreciate. He mumbles something, you can't quite tell what, and one hand slides up beneath your thin medical bay gown, to circle and then tweak your nipple. The sensation sends another shiver up your spine. You aren't sure how much you're supposed to touch him in return, but you allow yourself to embrace him, to put your arms around his slender shoulders as he ruts into you with abandon. The exam table shakes beneath you, its thin metal legs shimmying with every thrust. Just as you are about to become seriously concerned about this, the General lets out a shout and comes, pulsing wet and hot inside you. 

He lies still for a moment, afterward. Remembering, suddenly, who he is, you remove your arms from him, and he sits up. His normally impeccable hair has fallen loose. He brushes it back as he stands up. Taking a disposable cloth from the box beside the table, he wipes himself off then pulls up his underwear and his trousers. 

“A droid will bring you another pillow,” he says. “Put it under your hips. It's important you lie still for at least twenty short cycles before getting up. The medical bay staff will assist you further.”

You nod, feeling a little dazed. “Yes, sir.”

“We will repeat this the next three mornings, to optimise our chances of success.”

“All right.” You can't say you mind the idea.

General Hux reaches for his coat. “Thank you,” he says, as if you were the one who has just done him a favour. “And best of luck.” 

“Yes, sir.” You repeat. He leaves, closing the curtain behind him. You lie back, and wonder if you have just created a new life, and the key to your future.


End file.
